THE NEW YORKER and a great deal of learned talk. The audience tried to find out by rushing to the platform and surrounding Mr. Hofmann at the piano, so that he had to plunge through a few hundred cus- tomers to play his final encores. A young lady in the front row of stage standees became so entranced that she attempted to assist the piani t by beat- ing time for him with her head, but she obviously had not had any re- hearsals, for Mr. Hofmann somehow neglected to follow her emphatic in- dications of tempi. W HY not try a Sunday night con- cert at the Metropolitan for relaxation? These events are not taken very seriously by critics, but they usu- ally are good fun, and when some of the prima donnae are on display, there is a tolerable fashion parade for the ladies. Some Sunday we shall try to persuade one of our better qualified colleagües to inspect the concert cos- tumes of Miss Rosa Ponselle and Miss Leonora Corona and report accurately on these creations. The hero of Sunday nIght is Giuseppe Bamboschek, who not only provides expert orchestral accompani- ments for the soloists, but competes valiantly with the Messrs. Rapee and Mendoza in "Les Preludes," the "William Tell" overture and other divertissements. He also deserves some sort of award for wasting less time about his business than any conductor now on VIew. -R. A. S. . MY SELF Sometimes I'm a lady, Dainty and polite. Sometimes I'm a sleek cat Prowling in the night. Sometimes I'm a butterfly, High on tinsel wings. I never know exactly when I'll be these things. Sometimes I'm a little girl Playing with a doll. Sometimes I'm a lowly worm And nothing much at all. Sometimes I'm a highbrow. Sometimes I'm a fool. Sometimes I'm a virgin maid, White and pure and cool. Sometimes I'm a wanton On my way to hell. I never know exactly when- So how are you to tell? -CHARLOTTE ARMSTRONG 43 LONG before these times of ours-back in the days when the curfew pealed its petulant song not much after sundown-the lighting problem was largely one of keeping a discreet distance from the smoke of a Betty lamp or a bayberry candle. Later, pewter lamps-and then pressed and blown glass lamps that burned oil and used wicks-became known; and, to some extent, difficulties decreased. These creations were quite as quaint as all other things of their time, and now, with the wonder of wire and bulb replacing the worry of oil and wick, repro- ductions of the same table lamps will be found at the Store of W. & J. Sloane. To keep them company, tall Colonial candlesticks of hand wrought iron have been skillfully adapted and reproduced as bridge lamps. 1 And certainly it goes without mention that the astonishingly low price of each lamp IS but another enlightening instance of our very fair markings of furniture and rugs and carpets and draperies w. & J 575 Fifth Avenue SLOANE at 47th S t C IT Y NEW YORK